


Possession

by ZiGraves



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:30:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZiGraves/pseuds/ZiGraves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words are powerful. Words are important. Words help us to shape the world around us, by defining the existence of what there is and the shape of what is absent.</p>
<p>Carlos has discovered the word 'mine'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possession

**Author's Note:**

> Sort-of continuing on the kink themes in the last fic I put up, a bit of slightly dommy and possessive Carlos.

Words are powerful. Words are important. Words help us to shape the world around us, by defining the existence of what there is and the shape of what is absent.

As a scientist, Carlos knew the power of words. The necessary clarity in labelling this cyanide compound so that it wasn’t mistaken for that cyanide compound, for instance. The importance of the word ‘run!’, yelled at top volume and accompanied by the sound of comfortable, practical shoes beating a hasty retreat from the mislabelled cyanide compound.

As a member of a reasonably large family, there were other words that Carlos was less familiar with. ‘Mine’, for instance, was barely in his vocabulary, and this was only reinforced by the communist approach to the supply cupboard of any laboratory, where no man might lay claim to a particular flask out of possessive habit or superstition. ‘Mine’ was not a word he tended to use.

Things, with Carlos, were ‘ours’.

Our research.

Our equipment.

Our decision to come to the heart of the desert to a town that is trying to kill us all.

He’d never really had ‘mine’ before, not even with little things like clothes and telephones, which were so easily shared with siblings or friends or lovers or roommates. He could place confidence in his toothbrush and his underwear, but then he never needed to assert possession of them. No one wanted them. If someone wanted or needed, then it was no longer ‘mine’, it became part of the nebulous territory of  ‘ours’.

And then there had been our decision to come to the heart of the desert to a town that is trying to kill us all. ‘Our’ became steadily smaller. The team shrank. ‘Our’ was now a dozen, now ten, now five. Now one.

For possibly the first time in his life, Carlos looked around and was struck with the feeling of _mine_.

My research.

My equipment.

My decision to come to the heart of the desert to a town that has not killed me yet, nor even really tried.

For the sheer novelty of it, he took part in Dot Day. My car. My apartment. My bunsen burners. He labelled things, with sharpie and stickers and RFID tags. Mine.

Night Vale tried to kill him and he discovered two more things he could apply that newfound word to. Things that he found he did not wish to revert to sharing, would not countenance the thought of becoming a vague and uncertain ‘ours’.

_My_ life.

_My_ Cecil.

Mine began, slowly, to expand into ours. A different kind of ours, not some massively shared property that left nothing sacred, but a small and contained sort of ours. _Mine_ meant _ours_ meant _Mine and Cecil’s_. Carlos surprised himself with how much he liked it, that gradual opening up of possession until even the apartment was _Mine and Cecil’s_.

Cecil rose late in the mornings, wandered through in a shirt that had once been _mine_ , bare-legged and sleep-fogged, sipped coffee from a mug that had once been _mine_ , and now they were just as much his. Carlos loved it, loved watching it, and loved the way that _ours_ still held that element of _mine_ , the possessive and protective rush that brought.

Loved the way Cecil made little whimpers of agreement when Carlos stole up behind him, wrapped his arms around his waist, grazed his teeth over his neck and whispered it: _Mine_.

There were sounds that were his and his alone. The rasp of indrawn breath when Carlos’ short, chewed nails found the bones of Cecil’s hips. The low moan when Carlos held Cecil’s wrists and bit his neck. The fluting, throat-catching bubble of a cry that stopped the second Carlos took his lips away from Cecil’s skin.

And looks, too, certain sights that no one else possessed or could ever share. Cecil’s eyes rolled up in bliss, lashes flickering and just the barest hint of pale sclera beneath them, Cecil’s neck arched and hands grasping at nothing, Cecil’s skin flushed and gleaming in response to Carlos’ touch.

Or sensations, unshareable, personal, intimate. The softness of Cecil’s inner thigh, the warmth of his breath against sensitised skin, the remarkable curve of his cheek and the way it fit into Carlos’ palm as though made for it.

_Mine_ was an amazing word to Carlos, surpassed only by Cecil’s sighing, dreamy reaction of _yours_.

 


End file.
